Chapter Twelve #3
And with a slight squint of Kade’s eyes and the sudden set of his expression, I watched whatever decision he was contemplating click into place.
“I’ll leave you two to your sparring,” he said, walking away into a dust-flicked distance.
* * *
WILKIE KEPT ME WITH him all day. I was given a much more cautious lesson, using my smaller sword, until Kade, disgusted, declared Wilkie’s instruction all but useless.
I was allowed to watch them as they sharpened, discussed and organized the swords, spears and many other weapons housed in one of several armories.
And I watched him, never tiring of his voice, the span of his broad shoulders, the easy, rugged grace of him.
I knew, and Wilkie knew, each time he caught my eye, that our connection had fired and set like the steely, permanent solidity of the swords he worked.
Yet he was honor-bound to follow the path that would be chosen for him.
Kade’s quiet conversation had not given me peace.
Quite the opposite. Time was running out.
I knew not what decisions the coming days would bring, but I knew those decisions would very likely break me.
For now, though, I let the nearness of him cling to me and shield me, steeping me in a small window of true happiness.
And I was, in that draining moment, content.
* * *
IN THE EVENING, WILKIE took me to a wondrous place.
The library. Nestled away in the back of the manor, it was a large chamber with tall windows and the old, musty scent of knowledge and history.
The walls were lined with shelves that displayed not only books but exotic trinkets and artifacts, the likes of which I had never seen.
I touched my finger to a patterned gold coin. I had never imagined such intricate metalwork, gleaming as it did with shiny golden opulence.
“Pick it up, if you like,” Wilkie said. “My uncle brought it back from Rome when he traveled there many years ago.”
“Rome,” I repeated, fingering the coin, enjoying its solidity. I had never heard of such a place. I liked the sound of its name.
“’Tis a most fascinating city,” he said.
“Have you been to Rome, warrior?”
“Aye. My uncle took my brothers and I on a trek through Europe when I was sixteen. My father considered it important for us to see the world beyond Scotland. We traveled for almost three years.”
I had barely contemplated the world beyond Edinburgh, a place I had never been and didn’t expect to see in my lifetime.
I knew only vaguely of the place names of the lower British Isles, from maps of Laird Ogilvie’s.
I had heard of York and, of course, London, which I thought must be the largest city in the world.
But these were not destinations I would ever see.
I had little need to consider their cultures or people, when they were so far beyond my scope.
Wilkie laid a sheet of parchment on the table and retrieved a small box from a shelf, which he placed next to the parchment.
“Are you ready?” he asked. He lit several oil lanterns and a number of candles. The oily reek of the lamps and the honeyed scent of the beeswax mingled in the soft-lit night. His blue eyes were light tonight. He pulled out one of two high-backed chairs at the table for me to sit on.
I sat, and Wilkie sat in the other chair, pulling his chair close so his warm thigh was resting against mine.
“Where did your mother’s lessons leave off?” he asked. “Did you learn the letters of the alphabet?” Wilkie uncorked the small glass inkpot, dipping the pointed end of the feather quill into it, swirling lightly.
I thought about this as I watched him prepare his quill. I remembered some of the letters. “I remember A, B and C. And R. And O.”
“’Tis a good start,” he said. “There are twenty-six letters. And each one has two forms: big and small.”
“Why two?”
“Big ones are for the first letter of names, and when you begin a sentence.”
“What’s a sentence?” I realized I had a lot to learn, but Wilkie was patient, watching my face as he explained. I tried hard to concentrate, but it was difficult with his face so close to mine, an unruly strand of his soft hair skimming my cheek.
“A sentence is an idea. It begins with a capital letter and it ends like this.” He drew his quill from the inkpot, sliding it gently against the lip to remove the excess. Then he touched the tip to the parchment to make a tiny dot.
“A dot,” I said.
“Aye. You need to learn each letter and what it sounds like, and I’ll teach you that soon, but first, let me show you what the letters are used for.”
“Tell me a sentence,” I said. I wasn’t sure what he meant by this.
He thought for a moment, then smiled. “‘One day, I went for a swim in the loch.’”
“Is that a sentence?”
“Aye. And it looks like this.” He wrote some letters, and I could see that the first one was bigger than the others, and that, at the end, he drew a dot.
“Tell me another one.”
His smile lingered. He wrote more letters. The ink made curled shapes on the parchment in a pleasing, lengthening design. “‘I saw a small thief.’”
“The first sentence is longer than the second one.”
“Aye. A sentence can be long or short. It all depends on what you want it to say.”
“What’s the next sentence?”
“Hmm,” he said, narrowing his eyes as though in deep concentration. “‘I chased the small thief up a very steep hill.’”
“Warrior,” I said softly. “Are you really going to write this story?”
“Aye. I like this one.” He continued to write the sentence and finished with the dot.
“Is that an I?” I asked, pointing. I thought I remembered that one, too.
“Aye, it is.”
“I don’t want to hear the sentence that comes next. I don’t like to think about it.”
“Which one?”
“The one where we fight.”
“All right,” he said. “We’ll skip that one. Let’s go to my favorite part.”
“Which part?”
He wrote down another sentence.
“What does it say?”
“What does it start with?” he said. “You can read the first letter.”
I smiled at him. I could. “You’re a good teacher, warrior. It says I.”
“It does, lass. You’re a natural.”
I smiled at him, excited, and he laughed.
“What does the rest of the sentence say?” I asked.
“Wait,” he said. “I’m not finished yet.” He continued to write, then finished with another dot.
“Please tell me. What does it say?”
“Patience, lass. It says ‘I took off the small thief’s helmet and beheld the most enchanting angel with hair like ripened wheat on a late summer’s day.’”
Amazed by him in every possible way, I said, “You’re a very good writer, warrior.”
“Thank you.” He continued writing and reading.
“‘The sight of her touched my very heart’—Nay,” he said, drawing a line through some of the letters.
“‘The sight of her inflamed my very heart. Her beauty astounded me, pouring into my soul and my body, and changing me forevermore. I wanted only to surrender myself entirely to her healing caresses.’”
I touched his sleeve, waiting and wanting to hear more.